


are these hands mine anymore?

by ahnakins



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahnakins/pseuds/ahnakins
Summary: "That wasn't you—""Yes, it was. I don't care whose mind it was. My body. My hands closing around their neck. My fingers curling around the trigger."





	

Wakanda is different, to say the least.  
It's always hot and sticky, like someone's dripping warm water down Bucky's body at every moment. Even at night, the only thing that changes is that the bugs came out in full force. Bucky swears he has at least a hundred bites on his body.  
The other thing is that everyone is so nice to him. Everyone, even the King, treats him with respect. Bucky can barely remember the last time someone had had a normal conversation with him. A conversation without "Mission report," or referring to him as "the Asset." Here in Wakanda, he's known simply as "Mr. Barnes."  
But the strangest thing is the freedom Bucky now has.  
When Bucky arrived in Wakanda, he asked the King for a weapon, and he had gotten one.  
"I hope you understand that there is no threat here," the King had said as he pressed the gun into Bucky's hands.  
"I know," Bucky said. "But I don't know what to do without one."  
The gun is in Bucky's drawer. It makes him feel more secure, knowing that if everything went to hell again, he has something to defend himself with.  
He can go anywhere he wants now, as long as he doesn't leave the expansive palace grounds. "To keep you safe," Steve had said.  
That's another thing — Steve. It's not like when they were kids anymore. They barely talk. After the drama of the fight — the media is calling it the "Civil War" — Bucky and Steve have kept to themselves. Bucky wanders the gardens, and Steve... who knows what Steve did.  
There are good days, and there are bad days. On the good days Bucky can just walk, and maybe hold a decent conversation, and eat all three meals.  
But on a bad day, he struggles to get out of bed. He talks to no one, and he'd be lucky to eat even one meal. On the bad days, he somehow always ends up with the gun in his hands.  
Today was a bad day.  
He doesn't mean to use it, really. There's nothing wrong with it. He just wants to feel it, trace his fingers along the contours of the metal, curl his finger around the trigger, hold it against his temple...  
Well, maybe there's a slight problem.  
He probably should be going to the therapist he'd been told about. He doesn't know why not. Maybe it's the fact that he doesn't want to sit through an hour of "you're okay, you're safe," every week.  
But that's irrelevant now. The gun was in his hands, the metal warmed by his touch pressed against his temple, and he's closer than he's ever been.  
See, Bucky knows that whatever everyone said, he wasn't actually a good person. What kind of hero kills innocents? No, Bucky has been tainted by the blood he'd spilled.  
This is it, then. He won't have to suffer through another day, live through another horror, remember another terrible mission.  
A single bullet can end it all.  
His finger curls around the trigger.  
He squeezes his eyes shut.  
"Bucky," someone says.  
Bucky doesn't move.  
He knows who the voice was from. Only one person could sound so gentle in a time like this.  
"Put it down," Steve says. "Please."  
Bucky opens his eyes but didn't move his hands.  
"Why should I?" he asks. His voice shakes slightly.  
"God, Buck, do you even need a reason?" Steve says, sitting next to Bucky.  
Bucky's hands shake. This isn't part of the plan — he's supposed to do this quietly, without fuss. Without witnesses.  
"I'm a murderer, Steve," Bucky says hoarsely. "I shouldn't be walking around like this."  
"You're not a murderer," Steve says, as if he can't believe what he's hearing. "You're — you were—"  
"Brainwashed?" Bucky laughs humourlessly, filling the room with the sharp sound. "Yeah, that's what everyone says. Doesn't bring them back to life though, does it? It wasn't even just those who put up a fight. If it was, I think I could live with it better. But I killed kids, Steve. Kids."  
"That wasn't you—"  
"Yes, it was. I don't care whose mind it was. My body. My hands closing around their neck. My fingers curling around the trigger."  
"I don't care," Steve says flatly. "I don't care who you killed, or why you did it. You're my friend. Partner. Boyfriend. Whatever you want me to be."  
"I just," Bucky says, "I just wanted to know how it would feel."  
Something in Steve's expression softens. "How what would feel, Buck?"  
"To fire a gun of my own accord."  
His finger slips behind the trigger again.  
"Bucky, no—" Steve begins.  
He's cut off by a loud bang, and then something shatters and Bucky flinches violently.  
"Bucky," Steve says. "Bucky."  
The bullet didn't go into Bucky's head. It didn't even hit him. He shot it at the wall. There's a perfect round hole there now.  
"Done," Bucky says. He looks up at Steve, and despite it all, he's smiling. "That was me. No one telling me to do it. That was my shot."  
He doesn't protest when Steve practically falls on him, wrenching the gun out of his hand and holding him close.  
For the first time in seventy years, Bucky is content.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know about the quality of this fic but it made me want to cry? Anyway, if you liked this please leave kudos and maybe a comment? They're my sustenance.


End file.
